God bless Mexico

WHEN I STEPPED outside at 8:30 a.m., the thermometer read 58 degrees.

In July.

In the Olden Days, when I lived in Houston, we would sweat buckets all summer, and I would pray for the first arrival of true Autumn, which I defined as a temperature less than 60. It would invariably show up around October 20, and the city would breathe a sigh of relief and elation.

A friend sent this interesting video yesterday. However, I hope all those Gringos and Canucks head to Ajijic instead of to my mountaintop. We already have too many grown men with ponytails and the sort of women they bond with: Birkenstocks, flower halos and armpit hair.